


the greatest thing that's yet to have happened

by onceuponamoon



Series: pas de cheval [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Jack Zimmermann is good with kids, Kent Parson is actually a softie, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 10:42:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3725767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onceuponamoon/pseuds/onceuponamoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It’s snowing and Jack looks ridiculous decked out in way more clothes than necessary, but a hell of a lot warmer than Kent feels.  He’s got the pink cheeks and everything, like he’s from some goddamn Norman Rockwell painting, all bundled up and trudging through the snow like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.  There’s a near-smile on his face and snowflakes fluttering to rest momentarily on his eyelashes before melting into non-existence. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	the greatest thing that's yet to have happened

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Panic! At the Disco's "Pas De Cheval"

It’s snowing and Jack looks ridiculous decked out in way more clothes than necessary, but a hell of a lot warmer than Kent feels. He’s got the pink cheeks and everything, like he’s from some goddamn Norman Rockwell painting, all bundled up and trudging through the snow like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. There’s a near-smile on his face and snowflakes fluttering to rest momentarily on his eyelashes before melting into non-existence.

Kent’s stomach hurts. 

Maybe he’s coming down with something.

“Come on!” Jack says, tugging on the thin fabric of Kent’s sleeve; it’s not half as warm as Jack’s hoodie-jacket-scarf combo. He’s wearing gloves, but Kent pretends he can feel the heat of Jack’s fingers. “Coach texted and said most of the kids are already here. They’re waiting on us.” 

Kent doesn’t watch Jack tug his pads on or shift his jock into place.

Kent doesn’t watch Jack skate smoothly out onto the ice toward the rabble of excited kids.

And Kent _really_ doesn’t watch Jack smile like these kids make it effortless for him, holding on tight to one that he almost bowls over during laps around the rink, patting the little dude on the helmet as he asks if he’s alright.

(Alright. Maybe he watches a little.)

It’s just that. Well. Kent had no idea that Jack – _Jack Zimmermann_ – was good with kids. He didn’t even know that he _liked_ kids, especially not well enough to be passing out fist-bumps like they were first rate lineys, praise and smiles flowing forth like Jack had been bodysnatched. The critique he doles out is thoughtful and encouraging, and enough to have the kids skating by with their tongues poking out, brows furrowed, eyes on the puck. 

There’s this one little dude who looks up at Jack with the wide eyes, the most amazed expression on his face, and Kent has a feeling that the kid might know who Jack is, who his father is. It makes Kent a little uneasy and he loses focus a bit as he watches the kid watch Jack, forgetting that he’s supposed to be guiding his own group of kids through agility drills. Pasting on a determined grin, Kent bends to have his kids gather close.

“See those guys over there?” he asks, bending close so that his voice doesn’t carry. “We’ve got a scrimmage coming up real soon and we’re gonna kick their butts. That means we gotta work real hard during these drills, eh?”

The kids give a chorus of “Yeah!”s and Kent gives a smirk when Jack and his group look over. 

Kent has his kids do suicides before a bit of stick handling and then, after a half-hour break, it’s go time.

It’s not hard to puff up with pride each time one of his kids scores a goal, after each pass connects, after each solid check. Rounds of high fives are doled out during the brief intermissions and Kent gets his kids huddled close to ask them about weak spots they’d noticed and where their own strengths were. They all give decent answers and he’s feeling pretty proud when it’s time to send them back on the ice. 

No one complains about ice time, and after all is said and done – because _of course_ it’s a tie and Coach gives them a no on OT – Kent’s smiling, not smirking, and Jack catches his eye just to give him this sly, happy grin. 

Everything feels easy and nice and Kent’s stomach is still doing that thing, which is weird, but whatever.

Later on, Kent pretends not to stare at the slope of Jack’s back or the cut of his hips as they get undressed, chirping each other all the while about how their own kids were better than the other’s. He blurts, “D’you think you’d ever want kids?” trying not to let the surprise show on his face afterwards, schooling his expression as he slips the pads from his shoulders, burying it beneath a casual grin. (He tries to forget that Jack’s perceptive as hell, that he probably already noticed, analyzed it, and filed it away for later.) They don’t talk about things. They don’t talk about plans for the future. But if Kent were to retract it, stumble over a, “Nevermind,” or an, “I’m just kidding,” it’d be even more suspicious.

But Jack doesn’t say anything. Not at first. He huffs a breathy little laugh, and says, “Shut up,” like maybe he thinks Kent’s trying to make fun of him.

*

Kent never would’ve ever said he wanted kids. Mostly, he wants a Stanley Cup, another cat, and a backyard big enough for team barbecues. Well, first he needs to get drafted, and then the other stuff can happen. He knows he has his work cut out for him, knows he has to work hard to tick those goals off of his checklist and he _knows_ that there’s no guarantee he’ll achieve any of them.

But he also knows that thinking about kids and Jack and a _future_ is already distracting enough, so there’s definitely no room for that. It’s not in the cards, and that’s mostly because it can’t be. 

Kent can’t _let_ it be. 

(It doesn’t stop Kent’s heart from hammering into his ribs, twinging when he pictures Jack holding a kid on his hip, on his shoulders, by the tiny hand.)

Sighing, Kent shoves a hand through his hair and then tugs his hat on. The brim brushes against the back of his collar as he lugs his gear into the backseat of his mom’s dented Corolla. He hears the crunch of snow and then Jack’s, “Kenny, wait up!”

Clenching his fist around the keychain, Kent shoots Jack a grin and waits for him to come to a breathless stop. Jack’s eyes are wide and so damn blue when he asks for a ride and Kent wouldn’t ever be able to say no to those, to that face. (He resolutely _doesn’t_ picture a little girl with Jack’s sad eyes and his dark hair, asking to stay up, “Just ten more minutes, Daddy, pleeeeeease,” because that would be a terrible, _terrible_ idea.) 

“Sure, Zimms,” is all Kent says, even though the, “Your dad forgot again, eh?” is right on the tip of his tongue.

(Kent knows that Jack would never forget their kid. Not with as many times as it’s happened to him.)

The car’s full of tension and Kent knows he’s being too quiet because Jack keeps sneaking looks as Kent drives carefully through the flurries toward the Zimmermann residence. When they get there, the gate’s locked up tight and his parents are gone and Jack forgot his key, so, tight-lipped, Kent reverses and heads to the opposite side of town. The houses get smaller and smaller and then finally they’re there; Kent parks along the curb and gives Jack a tight smile. They grab their gear from the back and head inside.

Mom acts pleasantly surprised (even though this has happened _countless_ times) and his sister shoves past Kent in the hall to say hi to Jack just before her and mom leave for the grocery store, and then all of the sudden Kent’s alone with Jack and the tension, and these horrible, stupid, embarrassing thoughts.

“You okay?” Jack asks.

(That stupid, stupid genuine concern, compassion. It’s too much. Kent knows he’d kiss scraped knees, wipe away tears, and make dumb little jokes to take away any pain, just to put a smile back on their kid’s face.)

He sets his bag against the wall in its usual spot, kicks off his shoes right next to it, making himself at home in Kent’s space the way he always has, always does, always will. Quietly, unobtrusively, politely. 

A soft sound escapes Kent’s throat before he can muster up a flashy grin, so instead he tugs Jack to him by the pouch of his hoodie, a dirty smile emerging at Jack’s wide-eyed surprise. The kiss shouldn’t be a surprise but Jack still gasps and Kent has to chase after it before he does something stupid. 

Then they’re horizontal and Jack’s mouth is so hot and wet around Kent’s dick that he wants to cry, and then Kent’s using his hands and they’re both trying so hard not to, but they do, and it’s good the way it’s always good, and then they’re panting up at the ceiling with fingers threaded and Kent’s blurting out, “I think we’d be good dads.”

Like that might be better than what he’d asked earlier.

A laugh bursts out of Jack, full-bodied and loud like it’d surprised him, and he covers his mouth with their intertwined hands and says, “We’re a little young to think about that now, eh?”

Kent’s expression must still be too serious because then Jack says, eyes sparkling, “We should…we should think about it once we’ve won the Cup.”

And…that’s an answer Kent can live with.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me about Jack's sad eyes, Bitty's oven mitt collection, Shitty's sick flow, or how Kent Parson deserves some love on [tumblr](http://onceuponamoonfic.tumblr.com).


End file.
